A Killing in the Hills

Part Two





23


Carla waited. She needed to make sure her mother had left the house.

Bell didn’t snoop. At least Carla had never caught her doing it, the way some of her friends had caught their parents hanging around half-open doors each time their cells emitted whatever rap-tune ringtone they’d just downloaded. Parents were always eager to catch evidence of any activities involving drugs or sex.

Her mother wasn’t like that.

Still, Carla couldn’t take the chance. And besides, there might be different rules in effect from here on out, now that Carla had made her big announcement, now that she’d made it clear she was moving in with her dad. Maybe, until Carla was actually gone, her mom intended to take it out on her in small annoying ways, bit by bit.

Doing things like snooping. Like sneaking around and spying on her private business.

Carla was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen chair, bare knees bumping the table edge. She’d rolled up her baggy sweats, turning them into makeshift short shorts, and on the table in front of her, a bowl of cereal was rapidly disintegrating into gluey yellow mush.

It was Monday morning. From this spot Carla could hear her mom’s Explorer starting up in the driveway, the engine quickly settling into its earnest grumble.

Great. She’d be pulling out in the next few seconds, heading for work.

Up and at ’em, Mom. That was the urgent vibe that Carla sent out into the universe, a steady mental push of sustained hoping. Let’s get a move on.

But Carla still couldn’t relax and make the call. Her mother had been known to come rushing back into the house, frantic and dismayed, having suddenly realized that she’d forgotten a crucial case file or the transcript of an interview she needed for that day’s arraignment or the small round carton of strawberry yogurt that Bell usually grabbed on her way out the door. Carla had to be sure before she called Lonnie. Privacy was imperative.

Lately, with her car off-limits because of that stupid suspension, Carla had been catching a ride to school with her mom. But Bell was leaving too early this morning – a fact that actually worked perfectly with her plans, Carla had realized. Almost too well. It made her nervous. Could she pull it off?

It was just past 5 A.M.

‘If I rode with you today, I’d be getting there, like, before the janitor does,’ Carla had complained as they’d sat at the kitchen table a few minutes earlier, Bell facing multiple stacks of manila folders, Carla hunched over her bowl of Cap’n Crunch.

‘They don’t even open the place this early,’ Carla added.

They hadn’t talked any more about Carla’s decision to live with her dad. From the moment they’d greeted each other in the kitchen that morning, an unspoken agreement seemed to be in force: Focus on the business of the coming day.

Keep things light. Superficial. Even keel.

‘Can’t help it, sweetie,’ Bell said. She was separating the folders into different piles, and then angling those piles into the briefcase that gapped open on her lap. ‘I need to leave in about five minutes.’

‘So I’ll take the bus,’ Carla said. ‘No problem.’

She watched her mother’s reaction. This was a critical moment, because Carla hated the bus. Volunteering to take it was a calculated risk. If her mother suspected that Carla was trying to get rid of her, trying to hurry her out the door, then Carla would be well and truly screwed.

Bell looked up from her folders. Then she looked back down at them again.

‘Okay,’ Bell said.

‘“Okay”?’ Carla repeated, just to make sure it wasn’t some kind of trick.

‘Sure. Fine. Take the bus.’ Bell slid the last folder into her briefcase. She put the case on the floor and stood up. She was wearing a charcoal gray suit with a white blouse. ‘Let’s just pray,’ Bell said, adjusting the crisp collar, ‘that I don’t get strawberry yogurt all over this outfit before I even hit the office. Bound to happen, though, right?’

Carla shrugged. ‘You look good, Mom.’ She stirred the goop in her bowl, then lifted the spoon and tipped it into her mouth, enabling a milky lane of Cap’n Crunch to sluice its way in.

‘Thanks, sweetie. Gotta run.’

Bell bent down to pick up her briefcase. On her way back up she reached out with her other hand and touched the top of Carla’s head, lightly grazing it with her fingertips. It wasn’t quite a pat, and it wasn’t quite a tousle, either. Carla didn’t know what to call it.

‘Bye, hon,’ Bell said. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you too, Mom.’ Carla kept her eyes on her cereal bowl. She was playing it cool all the way. Cool and casual.

Bell hesitated. ‘Are you sure you’re ready to go back to school? I mean, it was just two days ago, sweetie. If you want to take some more time, I could call the principal and see if—’

‘I’m fine, Mom. Okay? Fine.’

Bell touched the top of her daughter’s head again. To Carla, it almost seemed like some kind of superstition. Ever since the shooting, it was like her mother had to touch her a certain number of times before she left a room, any room, just to feel grounded, just to feel whole. It was weird.

Carla heard the front door close. A moment later, the engine of Bell’s SUV swooped to life. Carla was getting antsy. She had to talk to Lonnie, had to catch him before he left for his job at the Jiffy Lube out by the turnpike. He hated getting up early, but he was on the morning clean-up crew. Had to scrub out the bays and empty the trash cans and get rid of the dirty oil – Gross, Carla footnoted her own thought – before the customers started showing up.

Finally, Carla heard two short horn toots from the driveway. It was her mother’s way of saying good-bye, even though she’d already said it. Several times, in fact. Her mother liked to pile on the good-byes, Carla knew. No such thing as too many.

Her mother had been acting strange this morning. Distant. Like there was something on her mind, something even more troubling than the shooting in the Salty Dawg or the fact that Carla was leaving.

Well, Carla had her own problems. Good luck with yours, Mom, she thought. Kinda busy here with my own shit right now.

She pushed the bowl to one side and dug out the cell from the saggy pocket of her sweats. She pressed No. 5. The small orange screen flashed with the words PRINCE, LONNIE.

It rang three times. An eternity, in cell-land.

Pick up, pick up, Lon, Carla thought. Pick UP, damnit.

Then a sleepy voice came on the line. ‘Yeah.’

‘Lonnie,’ she said. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey,’ he said.

He and Carla hadn’t talked since before the shooting on Saturday. Lonnie’s folks had moved way out to the rural part of Raythune County, down near Briney Hollow, and if you wanted to see him, you had to plan for it. You’d never run into him by accident. She hadn’t returned his calls. She hadn’t returned anybody’s calls. Well, except for her dad’s. That was different.

‘Where you been?’ Lonnie said.

‘Around.’ She shifted the phone to her other ear. ‘Listen, Lonnie. Something I have to tell you.’

‘Sure. Whatever.’

‘It’s a secret, okay?’

‘Whatever.’

Carla took a breath.

‘I was there,’ she said.

‘Huh?’

‘At the Salty Dawg. I saw the whole thing. The shooting, I mean. I was there, Lonnie.’

His voice jumped out of the phone like a lightning strike. ‘Holy shit, girl! You were there? What the hell—’

‘Lonnie, I don’t want to talk about it. Okay? Not right now.’

‘Okay, okay. But you gotta tell me a little bit. Only fair. It was a mess, right? Blood and shit, everywhere?’

‘It was—’ Carla didn’t know what to say. ‘I can’t talk about it right now, okay? Later. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’ She changed the subject quickly, before he’d have the chance to beg her. ‘Hey. That party we went to a couple of weeks ago. Over in Alesburg.’

‘Yeah.’

‘The one where that guy was.’

‘What guy?’

‘The guy. The guy who was giving out all the drugs. He had piggy eyes, remember? He looked like a pig. He acted like he was hot shit or something.’

‘Okay, whatever. I guess. Yeah.’

‘Who was he? I mean, you ever see him before? Before that night?’

Lonnie chuckled. ‘You got the hots for him?’

‘Just tell me, Lonnie. A name. That’s all I need.’

‘Hold on. Why the hell are you asking me about some guy? Who cares about that? You watched people get shot, man. I heard that one of ’em was Streeter – the bastard who threw me out of driver’s ed last year. Jesus. You saw murders.’

‘Lonnie,’ Carla said. ‘This is important, okay? Who was that guy? I gotta know.’

‘Never seen him before. But listen, Carla – didja see a hell of a lot of blood? Damn. Wish I’d been there. Wish I’d been there to watch those bastards get their heads blown off. Love to see that brain crap hanging all over the place. And all the freakin’ blood. Oh, yeah.’ Lonnie laughed. His laugh was a spidery cackle.

The creepy eagerness in Lonnie’s voice struck Carla as kind of sick. Kind of bizarre and twisted. It was the same way they talked about the horror movies they’d go see at the theater over in Blythesburg, the bloodier the better, the grosser the better, movies where people got their hands and legs chopped off with a chain saw, got their eyeballs ripped out of their heads so that some sicko could play marbles with them, but this was different. This was real. There was no way she could explain it to Lonnie. But this was way different.

That’s when Carla realized that she couldn’t talk to Lonnie about the gunman, couldn’t admit that she’d recognized him. But she still needed his help.

She’d made a decision the night before. She was still going to live with her dad; that was a done deal. Before she left, though, she was going to try and track down the guy. The murderer. It was something she could do for her mom. Something that mattered.

She couldn’t talk to her mom about any of this, because she couldn’t tell her that she’d been at a party with drugs. And she couldn’t talk to Lonnie about it, either. Lonnie was a dumb-ass. A joke.

The whole thing made her feel empty inside. Hollowed out with loneliness.

‘I need you to think about this, Lon. Think real hard, okay? That guy at the party? You sure you never heard a name?’

‘Nope. But I’ll ask around if you want me to. Hey, Carla,’ Lonnie said, the rabid excitement returning. ‘Did you maybe take some pictures? With your cell? Before the cops got there, I mean? Of the blood and shit?’